Alternatives to Running
by Stephane Richer
Summary: Shougo doesn't hold it against him that he runs away, at least not more than he holds anything else against Ryouta


Alternatives to Running

Disclaimer: don't own

Notes: Day 23 of the 30 Day Cheesy Tropes Challenge by ghiraher on tumblr: mythical creature/human

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Shougo doesn't hold it against him that he runs away, at least not more than he holds anything else against Ryouta, and that might be the most he can ask in this situation. Another black mark in Shougo's imaginary ledger is really nothing compared to the fear of seeing him, the fear of what might happen if he stays too long on those days when the moon is full like a ripe apricot, waving tantalizingly above them, heavy and dragging its weight on and on until morning.

Ryouta can't sleep well on those nights and he blames it on Shougo but can't quite say anything about it; he can't bring the requisite amount of bite into his words on a morning after when Shougo crawls into the apartment broken and haunted, grey eyes so dull and clouded and jaw too tender to bite back a reply.

The alternative to running would be to stay, to be bitten—to be transferred this hideous kind of half-life or to be torn apart to shreds by Shougo's jaws until there's nothing left or to be eaten or some combination of the three. Shougo's the one who'd told him that the first full moon they'd spent together (or as together as they were ever going to be on those kinds of nights) as he'd turned to go, early evening light making even the dullness of his dyed black hair shine with some sort of eerie glow—he'd spat out the words, to not come with him unless Ryouta had wanted to be destroyed, clenching his fists and digging them deeper within his parka. Shougo's the kind of guy who makes threats like this all the time but this one hadn't rung with the same hollowness, had been thick with worry and self-loathing and matched up totally with what Ryouta had heard of werewolves, of greedy jaws tearing at unlucky or stupid humans who'd gone out late into the parks on nights of full moons, the news stories featuring kids with scars roped across their face who had tragically become freaks for life.

Sometimes he wonders what kind of wolf Shougo is, maybe a lean dark grey one, fast enough to catch its prey of rats and birds and to win fights with other wolves, or perhaps a quieter sort who gets mixed up in trouble anyway because wolf or not he's still Shougo; he's still the unlucky one who ends up making everything worse for himself, and the wounded body he drags back in the morning is a testament that he's been up to something. Sometimes Ryouta tells himself to stop thinking about these things because they lead to rather chilling scenarios—there are kids who think it's cool to be a werewolf and go running out in the full moon; he tries not to think of Shougo's jaws on a child's throat, tells himself that no matter how much of a bastard through and through Shougo is that he'd never do that but then again how much humanity do werewolves retain? Is he fetishizing the blood and violence? Is he fetishizing this part of Shougo, the part they both resent the most?

Sometimes he traces the deep-set scar at the base of Shougo's neck, the one in the shape of a distorted wolf's jawline, the one Shougo hides inside his baggy hoodies and underneath misshapen, loudly-colored scarves even in the summer, as if he can't decide whether he wants to draw attention to it or hide it and so tries both at once. Sometimes Shougo hits away his hand and digs in his nails until it hurts and Ryouta's afraid that this time it really will scar, that this time the decline of his modeling career really begins—but it never does. Shougo can be reckless and careless with his touches, with his bites and scratches, even. Ryouta had thought once that it was because he was irrationally afraid of turning someone even in his human state—but that's not quite it. It's at the tip of his tongue sometimes but he doesn't want to voice it; it doesn't really make sense why Shougo would be all that careful not to scar him. He's told him not to but telling him that stuff makes Shougo want to do it even more—leave the television on when he leaves the room, not take out the trash, keep his hair in those stupid cornrows. Dwelling on it makes Ryouta somehow almost uncomfortable, and he knows that it would be tactless to bring it up—he can always get a good read on people, especially people like Shougo who can't control their emotions very well (and almost don't make any effort to do so) and yet he doesn't want to open this any farther, peel back the lid and find—what, exactly? And who would be the worse for it, himself or Shougo?

The mornings after are always subdued affairs; Shougo comes in and Ryouta pretends not to be awake until after he's been banging around in the kitchen for a few minutes and he helps ice Shougo's wounds and helps him to the couch where Shougo falls asleep and buries his face in Ryouta's stomach, pretending that he's still half-delirious. They can't be honest with each other right here but it's okay for now, stroking Shougo's tangled hair that's come half-undone from the braids and gripping his clammy, dirty hand. He looks utterly miserable and wretched, like one of those exaggerated poor orphans in a stage play or something, with the creases in his forehead and the dirt caked on his body and the blood under his nails.

When he wakes up a few hours later, he looks up at Ryouta and gives him a feeble half-glare (depending on the state of his jaw it sometimes works better than others).

"Why are you still here?" he spits out, eyebrows knitted.

Ryouta never answers. It's never clear whether he's trying to make the question sound like he wants Ryouta to stay or go, even though Ryouta stays every time anyway. One of these days, though, he might be asking him to go; one of these days he might jump off the couch and sway for a second before gaining his balance and storming out for good. But that day hasn't happened yet.


End file.
